Sweet Abduction (8 page)

He laughs softly. “Does it feel like I’m thinking about revenge right now?”

Clearly that’s not what he’s thinking about right now. Once upon a time I would have been flattered, no, ecstatic, to think that he wanted me, but it’s not so simple anymore. My eyes sting and prickle with the threat of tears. Again. I’m off-balance, unsure and vulnerable. I’m not much of a crier, so when I do cry it’s like a flood. A big, wracking ugly cry like the one I had when I visited Dad’s grave.

He turns me another half-circle so I’m facing him again. My heels give me a few inches of height, but I still have to tilt my head to look him in the eyes. His gaze sears me and I hate that I can’t tell what it means.

“Riley…” My voice cracks. I shake my head and he holds my gaze while one of the photographers rears up beside us, snapping pictures a foot away.

“Finish up,” Riley snaps. “My wife’s getting tired.”

Someone translates this to the director and he vents in Italian and I hear Charlotte’s voice.

“Wait… what? Did he just say Leah is his
wife
?”

Someone says something about us being married and Charlotte gasps. “I thought that was just a rumor!”

The next few minutes are a blur. The photographers take a few more shots and Riley appeases them by cradling my face with his hand. The pictures will give everyone the impression he’s madly in love with me and while I’m pressed close enough to feel his arousal, there’s nothing in his gaze but ice.

And then it’s over. He releases me from his embrace, but takes my hand, waving the photographers off with the other. We walk off the set.

Charlotte hands me a bag with my clothing and I can see the unhappiness in her eyes. “You got married. And I didn’t even get to help you like you helped me.”

“We’ll have a proper wedding when the fight is over, Charlotte,” Riley says.

And the next moment he whisks me out the door. A handful of photographers line the sidewalk along with some fans. A teenaged girl holds up a sign.
I Heart Rileah.

Riley follows me into the car, shielding me from the cameras as I get in. I look out the window and see Charlotte, holding her hand up to her ear gesturing for me to call her. Her lips are parted, her face a picture of disbelief. As the car pulls away she lifts her hand to wave. I wave back and watch her until she disappears from view.

Riley

The rain drums on the roof of the car as we drive home, and neither of us speak. The photo session just changed the playing field. I love photoshoots, normally. Not for the attention, but for the money. It allows me to do things I never imagined. Things for people I care about. That’s turned out to be the most important thing out of all of this.

My earliest memories of my life are of being a ward of the state, moving from home to home until I ended up on George and Emily’s doorstep.

George and Emily never intended to be foster parents, but Emily happened to be in court to contest a speeding ticket. That wasn’t the last speeding ticket she’d get, but it was the most important one, for me anyway. She saw me getting chewed out by a social worker right there in the courtroom. For some reason she’s never explained, she decided to take me in, even though she and George never had kids and knew nothing about parenting.

I was eleven, a surly little shit, full of bad intentions. George worked my ass into the ground, putting me into every sport he could from martial arts to baseball to football, and making me do chores on the ranch on the weekend. Emily was even worse, making me take piano lessons and ballroom dancing on top of all the crap I had to do for George. Every night I collapsed into bed, too tired to even remember my name, much less cause trouble.

I don’t know where I would have ended up if Emily hadn’t been in court that day. I went from a “fuck you” and “up yours” juvenile delinquent, to a “yes ma’am” and “no sir” almost-regular kid. All these years later, I’m equally comfortable in either role. I can use my hands to play Claire de Lune or to render a heavy weight fighter unconscious in seconds.

Leah stares out the window, avoiding me because of what I did to her. I cupped her ass with my hand today, in front of a bunch of strangers. I’ve bided my time for years, building something to offer her and being on my very best behavior anytime I texted her. Today I manhandled her, pressed her innocent body against my hard-on, showing her what she does to me. It was coarse and dirty, but when I touched her, the world shifted, tilted and narrowed until there was only one thing. The way Leah felt against me.

I want to reach out to her, but I don’t dare touch her. There’s no one to keep me from her. If she touches me right now, I won’t be able to hold back. It’s raw and animalistic. I know that. I’m aware of the monster inside of me but Leah isn’t and if I have any hope of holding on to her after the fight, I need to shield her from that side of me.

“Do you want to stop for dinner, Leah?”

“Do you?”

“Only if you want to.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I can wait. There will be something for us to eat at home.”

“Whatever you like.”

I snort. “We’re like those fucking chipmunks.
After you. No really. After you
.”

She keeps her gaze focused out the window. “I’m not wearing underwear, Riley. I don’t really want to go sit in a restaurant, half-dressed when some photographer might jump out from behind the door. So take me home. I’m not hungry and I don’t feel like any more drama today.”

“Atta girl. Say what you want. Not what I want to hear.”

She flips me the bird and I swear to God, my state of semi-arousal goes to full-throttle.

But when we get home her courage vanishes, and she retreats to her bedroom, shutting the door with a bang. I wander around aimlessly, first in the house and then I go out to the garden. I watch the sun sink behind the horizon and wonder what she’s doing upstairs. I want to hold her again, show her some tenderness and I want to kiss her too.

The sun’s rays fade. I love this spot. I can see for miles and when the sun goes down the hills turn a deep purple just before the first stars appear overhead. I think about getting her. The house is quiet. It’s just the two of us and I want her back in my arms. The evening gives way to night and I return to the house. It’s utterly silent.

There’s a tray of sandwiches in the kitchen fridge, and I take one along with a beer. I have tomorrow off from working out, and I can have a beer or so without having to confess to Ivan. After I eat and polish off the beer, I grab another and head to my bedroom and undress.

I set the bottle down on the marble counter. George used to act like bottled beer was for rich people, and he took a little pride in only drinking the canned stuff. He didn’t drink a lot. One or two a few times a week. After I started fighting, I made sure he had whatever he wanted, but he stuck with the same canned shit. I try to spoil them but it’s hard. At least they let me buy them a house on the beach. George can fish. Emily gardens and cooks. I show up once a month or maybe twice and everyone’s happy.

I change out of the suit and into jeans and a t-shirt and stroll down the hall to Leah’s room.

After a knock on the door, I take a swig of the beer.

She cracks the door. “Yes?”

“You hungry?”

“No.” Her voice is muffled. I want to ask her a few other things like…are you wearing underwear? Which, I know, is totally wrong.

“Want me to bring you something to eat?” I ask.

She pulls the door open. “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

Her answering the door was a surprise, a small one, but when she swings the door open I can’t keep from staring. She’s in some sweet little virginal gown and bathrobe. It’s lacy and almost sheer. I have to force myself to keep eye contact.

“Want me to play the piano for you?” Where that came from I don’t really know.

“You know how?”

“I do.”

“Really?” Her voice is soft, gentle and her lips tilt into a sweet smile.

Her smile lights up my world. I have to confess that I hated every single moment I played the piano. I complained every time Emily forced me to practice, but suddenly all the torture seems worthwhile.

“I love the piano,” I tell her. Not true, but for her, I might change my opinion.

Her jaw drops and she leans a forward just a little and smiles. “I didn’t know that about you.”

“Let me play something for you.”

She looks down and flushes. “I’m not really dressed.”

Perfect. I love that look on her. ‘Not really dressed’ is still way overdressed. “You’re fine.”

I offer her my hand, and she eyes it suspiciously. After a moment, she puts her hand in mine. In that moment, I feel as though she’s forgiven me a little for what happened today.

“I don’t want to do that again, Riley.”

Gritting my teeth, I resist the urge to pull her into my arms and demand to know what the hell that’s supposed to mean. Does she not want me to take her into my arms? Take a picture together? Grab her ass?

She squeezes my hand. “I don’t want you to touch me in front of people for some make-believe heated photo shoot. If you want me to put on a show for you I will, but not in front of people.”

“So you’re saying don’t pat your ass in public?”

“You were doing a lot more than patting it.”

“All right. Fine. Won’t grab your ass. In public.” I tug her hand and lead her downstairs to the living room. Light burns in the corner, casting the room in soft warmth. She sits on the couch and watches me as I sit at the piano.

For the next twenty minutes, I play a few classical pieces, Chopin, then Brahms, and finish with a piece from Philip Glass.

A few moments pass and neither of us say anything. She’s sitting with her legs drawn up and her arms around her knees. Her hair hangs loose past her shoulders. The way she looks, open and vulnerable, makes me want to make everything right for her. Shelter her from every ugly thing in the world. I want to gather her in my arms. Carry her to my room. Forget everything.

“I know what I want. I want to kiss you,” she says. “Here. In private. I don’t want our first kiss to be a display.”

I’m on my feet and half-way across the room before she finishes her words. She tries to rise from the couch, but I coax her back down and press her back. I settle beside her, trapping her between me and the back of the couch. I take up the length of the couch but there’s just enough width to accommodate both of us. We’re staring at each other, face to face and she’s biting back a smile.

“You’re not supposed to seduce me before your fight,” she taunts.

“We haven’t even kissed, and you’re talking about seduction?”

She lifts her brows. “Can I ask you something?”

“Ask me anything.”

“Do you walk around with a permanent erection?”

“Ever since I got married.”

“Oh? Is that uncomfortable?”

“Very.”

“Mm.”

Her questions make me want to reach down and smack her ass which would be one hundred percent a bad idea. I shouldn’t even be touching her. Not only do I have my whole body against hers but she’s also in a whisper-thin gown.

“This is what you do to me, Leah. This is what you’ve always done to me.”

The teasing expression fades from her face and she nods solemnly. “What if I weren’t a Mathews? Would you still want me?”

Her question catches me off guard. So much of my plan revolved around one-upping Miranda and Dane. I didn’t think about my feelings for Leah. There’s never been a time when I didn’t want Leah. From the first moment I saw her I wanted to make her mine.

I run my fingers down her jaw. “I would want you no matter who you are.”

“You hesitated,” she whispers. Her eyes soften.

The wounded expression on her face pisses me off. I’ve been obsessed with this woman for three years… A thousand days of missing her, worrying about her, not to mention lusting after her.

“I thought you were going to kiss me. Who’s hesitating now?” I ask.

She parts her lips and I can tell she’s about to give me some sort of bullshit rebuttal, but I stop her with my kiss. When our lips touch she whimpers and sinks against me. I angle my head to deepen the kiss, stroke the seam of her lips with my tongue, growling with satisfaction when she submits. She tastes as sweet as I always imagined.

I thread my fingers through her hair. It’s silk. I want to bury my face in the mass of coppery tresses. Her breasts press against my chest stripping my control.

When she draws back, she lifts her fingers and traces the scars on my face. I’ve never let anyone touch them. I can’t help flinching when her fingers skim over my ugly scars.

“What happened?” she whispers.

“My foster mom at the time drove into a tree. She was drunk. I wasn’t strapped in.” I shrug. “Cut my face. Broke my collar bone.”

She winces and closes her eyes. There are a lot of things I don’t want from Leah and sympathy has got to be on the top of the list.

I lift her chin to kiss her. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“Good.”

“You’re tough.”

“That’s right.”

“But even tough guys need someone to care when they get hurt.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that and I see how a smile ghosts her lips. She likes having the last word. Her hand drifts along my chest and she loops her arm around my neck. The motion leaves her flank exposed and I skim my hands over her. She jerks when I move towards her breast.

“You can’t get away from me.” I kiss her ear and relish the way she squirms. She’s ticklish. I love that. I can’t believe I have Leah here on the couch and we’re making out like teenagers. Her body is soft and warm next to mine. Her scent is addicting. I want to tear through the gown.

Skimming my fingers down the front of her gown, I cup her breast. Her nipple is hard and I stroke my thumb across. We’re both breathing hard now. She moans every time I run the pad of my thumb over her nipple.

Leah is so responsive to my touch. Suddenly I’m possessed with the idea of touching her and making her come. I have to do that. Now. Here.

I tug her gown up her leg and I feel her shoulders stiffen. The next instant, she’s out of my arms and off the couch. How the hell she got away from me I can’t imagine, but she’s standing behind the couch. A strand of hair falls across her pretty face and she blows it away and smiles. A challenging, satisfied smile, like she’s pleased she got away from me.

When I rise from the couch she throws up her hands as if to ward me off.

“Stay away from me, Riley.” Her eyes are bright. Her hair is wild. Her lips are bruised from my kisses.

I stalk towards her and she backs away, keeping the couch between us. We circle a few times and she snickers because she thinks I can’t get nearer.

“You were getting just a little handsy for a man who can’t mess around,” she says. Then she laughs because her joke is so fucking amusing to her.

“I was just kissing my wife,” I growl.

She waves an index finger in the air. “I think you were planning on something a little more than kissing, Mister.”

We circle one more time and seeing that this is going nowhere fast, I step directly over the couch. With a shriek, she runs out of the den. I hear her laughter fade as she races across the house. I scrub a hand down my face and roll my shoulders. Does she expect to get away? From me?